


The Price of Justice

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character growing, F/M, Powerful Magic, Soulmates, Telepathy, Unwilling soulmates, Wandless Magic, ah frick idk what else to put here, bugger., i'll just come back and edit it later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 14:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21375352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: During the battle at the Department of Mysteries, Hermione is kidnapped and held captive at Malfoy Manor. Surrounded by a powerful clan of Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself, Hermione sees no way out. The Dark side's forces are stronger than she had ever imagined. The Light has no chance of winning the War. Unless...Hermione finds out about her heritage; that her last name isn't Granger, but in fact Riddle. After the effects of the love potion are removed from her father, Hermione sets to changing the Dark Lord's ways, in an attempt to steer the Dark side towards the Light.Meanwhile at Hogwarts, Dumbledore grows senile, twisting unnecessary sacrifices into his grand plan for fame. As his ways grow more twisted, the members of the Order begin to doubt their leader.Whose side of the War will reign victorious?What happens when Draco decides to help Hermione in her quest?
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Severus Snape, Hermione Granger & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 9
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Greater Good is a Big Fat Lie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18021194) by [Myella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myella/pseuds/Myella), [Roilena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roilena/pseuds/Roilena). 

> Hi everyone, this is my first fic (and I'm not the best at writing) so please point out as many errors, ways I can improve my writing/the story/the characters/their relationships/etc. as possible!!
> 
> Also, if you would like to help me write this work, or if you'd just like to Beta it, I would be SO GRATEFUL! (I have no idea what the hell I'm doing!)
> 
> Okay, this first chapter is basically a re-write of Myella and Roilena's The Greater Good is a Big Fat Lie, and I'm not very good at re-writing other people's work, so it's quite stilted. You know like not v fluid or whatever. I might re-write it again later but idrk.
> 
> Okay I'm rlly sorry for rambling! Please be as nit-picky as you like in your reviews! I really appreciate any help I can get!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> ~Mel

In the dank Dungeons of Malfoy Manor, Hermione Granger lay unconscious, unaware that she was being kept captive on the orders of the Dark Lord. Her smooth, usually bronze skin had a sickly pallor to it, and her hair, normally wild, lay in a limp halo around her head. Encircling her emaciated ankles, a powerful Dark artefact lay: manacles, laced with the spell to keep her in a deep, nightmare-filled slumber.

The only thing circulating Hermione’s mind was the last thing she remembered clearly: the battle at the Department of Mysteries. She had been right by Harry, tugging on his arm, leading him towards supposed safety, when a curse had hit her back, pain shooting through her body, and the world around her had faded alongside Harry’s screams of protest.

: : :

Something twitched at Hermione’s feet. She felt groggy and sore, her mind a muddled mess. Noticing she could feel, but not yet see, Hermione tried her hardest to concentrate on the feeling that someone was near her; someone was _watching_ her. She dared not move, but she could feel her magic strain to part from her core, to reach her ankles, where she was _sure_ something heavy was weighing them to the floor.

Waking more with each second, Hermione became more aware of her surroundings. Light was peering at her from somewhere to her right, and she noted with frustration, that distant water droplets were drip-drip-dripping in an agonisingly slow manner. She calmed her breathing. It wouldn’t do to show the person at her feet that she was awake.

Nothing about the place felt familiar to Hermione. She had never felt such a powerfully wrong aura before. It was as if the very walls surrounding her were imbued with Dark magic.

_Click_… Click.

The heaviness surrounding her ankles was set aside, and Hermione felt completely awake now. She could feel again sharp, searing pain lacing her back and dully wondered what sort of curse could have caused such an effect?

“I know you’re awake, _Muddy_.”

Hermione froze. The voice was cold, a tone of what Hermione could only describe as _unhinged_ peeking through.

She startled, letting out a yelp as the owner of the voice grabbed a chunk of her hair and yanked her into a sitting position. Hermione opened her eyes, her pulse blurring her vision with every beat.

“_How did you do that_,” the crazed woman hissed, her fetid breath reaching Hermione. The girl kept still, eyes locked on her captor’s. The woman cracked her neck in a jerky movement, dark eyes never leaving Hermione’s. “Answer me!” She shrieked.

The echo of her words bounced around the empty dungeon, quickly followed by the sharp sound of a slap.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hermione whispered, tears lining her eyes.

“_Crucio!_” The deranged woman screamed. She burst into a crowing bout of laughter at Hermione’s stubborn struggle to keep her mouth closed.

The curse at Hermione’s back felt like a caress compared to this. Her teeth gritted together. Her muscles seized. Her nerves frayed. Her veins were on fire. White hot agony seared across her vision. She wouldn’t scream. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t give that witch the pleasure. She… She just needed to last a little… Just a little… Longer—

The pain cut off abruptly. Hermione twitched involuntarily, her muscles seizing still, against her will. “You will ANSWER ME, MUDBLOOD, WHEN I SPEAK TO YOU!”

Hermione remained quiet, eyes fixed on a point to her left, fighting desperately to keep tears from rolling down her cheeks. Her hair was seized once again, jerking her forwards. Hermione struggled to keep pace with the witch, her scrambling bottom half scraping across mildewed stone. The witch paused, turning back to look down at Hermione. A short reprieve. “Oh, Muddy, we’re going to have so much fun,” she whispered excitedly, a cheshire grin splitting her face, her dark eyes wild.

The woman yanked on Hermione’s dirty locks again and strode towards the light of the doorway. Hermione felt—maybe heard?—a patch of her hair rip out, but she bit her tongue hard to keep from yelping. She couldn’t show weakness, no. Not until she knew what sort of mess she was in.

Still scrambling to get her footing, Hermione was dragged through the doorway and up a dank set of stairs. She felt her hips hit each sharp step, a burst of lightning-hot pain jolting up her back with each bump, hair tearing at her scalp in agonising pinpricks. Hermione struggled to free herself from her captor’s grasp, tears dripping down her cheeks from the pain that came with each effort.

The crazed woman cackled at Hermione’s futile movements. “Who do you think _you_ are, trying to fight _me_?” She yelled in a sing-song tone. Her wild gaze focused back on Hermione, her staggering stride quickening still. “You can’t save yourself from this, Muddy!” She grinned further, chuckling in her throat like a wench as she wrenched the girl’s hair upwards, harder yet. “Oh yes. My Lord is very interested in you, Harry Potter’s _Mudblood_.”

Hermione whimpered, gritting her teeth as the ground became flat beneath her once again. Her mind had grown frantic with the pain; her body ached from the curses. She just hoped Harry and the others were able to escape the battle unharmed—

“_Crucio!_” the witch screamed once more, hitting Hermione again with devastating, incomparable pain. The girl wanted so desperately to _scream_, to find a release—any release. But her stubbornness pulled through. She bit her bleeding tongue again, trying _so hard_ to focus the pain in one area. Distantly, she could feel the magic from her core bursting out, surrounding the curse, bringing it away from her extremities, dragging it into the core, _absorbing it_, almost. The pain remained insufferable, though lessened, ever so slightly.

“That will do, Bellatrix,” A serpent-like man interrupted patiently. He turned his head, looking at the Malfoy patriarch standing to the side of the room, leaning heavily on his cane. “Lucius, bring me the legitimacy papers,” he ordered. He turned back to the twitching girl who lay prone at Bellatrix’s feet. “Perhaps if we bring the girl’s parents in, she will loosen her tongue on some… valuable matters.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Lucius acquiesced, limping out of the room.

A shivering sigh was all Hermione could manage, paralysed in fear. She squeezed her eyes shut, cheek on the cool floor, trying to ignore the burning pain that ripped through her muscles still. She only distantly heard the Death Eaters filling the room chuckling at her plight.

The Dark Lord jerked his wand in Hermione’s direction, twisting her over and forcing her into a sitting position. He leered down at her, approaching with smooth, even footfalls. “I won’t kill you yet,” he smiled down at her calmly, “Not until you give me the answers I seek.”

The captive flinched as irregularly clicking heels passed by her back. Lucius wordlessly handed the parchment to the serpentine man, then lumbered back to his wife’s side.

Hermione released the breath she hadn’t realise she was holding, opening her eyes to quickly flit them about the room, counting faces. There were so many Death Eaters—she never knew there were so many to begin with. She searched the room for anyone familiar—other captives perhaps—Harry, Ron, Remus? Her guilty hope deflated when none caught her eye. There was no hope for her. She didn’t even have her wand. Yes, she may be proficient at wandless magic, but not proficient enough to get herself out of _this_. She could only hope that someone would come get her out of there so she could hide her parents. She wouldn’t let these evil wizards get to them, no matter how harsh they had been on her in the past. Hermione would tell the Dark Lord things. She would taint the truth, enough to make it false but still believable.

A vice-like grip encircled Hermione’s forearm, the icy-grey fingers tightening further when she clenched her fist in feeble protest. Shifting his grip, You-Know-Who—no—_Voldemort_ traced his wand between the tendons at the base of Hermione’s hand, slicing deeply into her flesh in a wordless spell. She let out a weak cry. He then lay the blank sheet of parchment at her knees, hovering her arm above it.

Together they watched as crimson blood dribbled down.

: : :

Voldemort shoved the girl away. He gathered up the parchment, scarlet eyes scanning the rapidly-appearing family trees, until they reached Hermione’s name, where her details caught his eye.

He walked across the room to sit at his throne. For a minute, his eyes stayed on the parchment. What he saw didn’t make sense.

Distantly, he could hear the Death Eaters around the room start to shuffle.

Then his eyes met Hermione’s. He didn’t understand.

She was not a Mudblood.

She was his. _His child_.

Clenching his jaw with an audible click, Voldemort turned his eyes upon Lucius. “Get me another,” he hissed. Lucius’s features laced with fear for a moment, before he cleared his throat, turned on his heel and hurried from the room.

Bellatrix sauntered back over to Hermione, who was once again crumpled on the floor. She nudged the girl’s cheek with the toe of her boot. “Mummy and Daddy might be here soon, Muddy,” she murmured in mock sympathy. The woman’s expression changed, a grin stretching across her cheeks as her voice crescendoed into a screech, “We’re going to kill Mu-mmy!” she sang, laughing, “And _you’re_ going to watch!”

“Bellatrix.” Voldemort cut in. “You will not touch the girl or her... parents, unless I give you the order.” Bellatrix turned to him, simpering. Then she gave him a wide grin, tongue between teeth, and stepped on Hermione’s hand before lolloping away.

: : :

Severus Snape did not want to be there, but he had no choice. He would answer the call when the Dark Lord summoned him.

He tried not to flinch at the sound of crunching bones; tried not to rush to Hermione’s aid when she let out a small cry. He narrowed his eyes at Bellatrix, thanking Salazar for his Death Eater regalia. No one could see the glare he directed at the deranged woman.

When Severus arrived several days ago at Malfoy Manor, he had been shocked not only to see Hermione, but also the condition she was in. A large, dark gash intrusively revealed a length of her jagged spine, dripping blood all down her sides.

Severus had been ordered to heal her. _So she could be tortured again_, he had thought bitterly.

He, of course, had been unrelenting in his torment for her over the years at Hogwarts. But he’d hardly meant any of it. He’d only meant to hurt her until she learnt to repress that insufferable know-it-all attitude. Since then, she had almost become a pleasure to teach.

Severus had started tutoring her in potions, privately, in her Second Year. Then the year after that, after she had expressed an interest, he had started giving her lessons in Occlumency. They spent four hours together every week working on the two subjects.

Severus’s lessons with Hermione had become somewhat of a bright spot in his glum teaching years. She was intelligent; more than able to keep up with his pace.

Seeing that with his own eyes, Severus’s opinion of her had changed.

He had often found himself thinking of her in times of great distress, such as when marking his other students’ essays. He even thought her to be — dare he admit it? — enjoyable company. He couldn’t let it show, however. It was of absolute importance that he maintain his ruse of displeasure; feeding the guises of The _Overgrown Bat_, The _Greasy Git_. It was his job, as a spy, to not be noticed as anything other than the image he purported.

He mightn’t admit this out loud, but he was proud of Hermione, and who she had matured to be. Sometimes he thought he even liked her as much as Minerva. But— No… That wasn’t right. A niggling thought gnawed at the back of his mind: did he feel something for her? Something akin to kinship, perhaps? He wondered if he was proud of her in more of a parental way, instead of that of a teacher? Oh, _never mind that_, he berated himself. He would suppress his feelings until they numbed down into nothing but a long-forgotten trouble past. He’d already experienced deep rejection. He didn’t want to suffer through it again.

But now those thoughts resurfaced as Hermione, his tutee, his _friend_ was being tortured. He itched to object to it, to pick her up and apparate her to safety. But he knew it wouldn’t do any good.

He supposed it could have been worse for her. The perversion the Dark Lord displayed to these rare rivals could have been far worse than this. She’d been given a small mercy. Severus was not sure he could have stood by watching her being defiled.

His head turned to the left, watching Lucius as his hesitant footsteps echoed again throughout the room. As he reached the Dark Lord, the new legitimacy parchment was swiftly snatched out of his hands. Lucius bowed his head, turning to leave, but a hand at his wrist froze him. The Dark Lord promptly reached out and sliced down the man’s arm, hovering it over the blank parchment.

A moment of silence.

: : :

The once vacant sheet flared as names appeared, much in the fashion of growing vines. They only revealed Voldemort what he already knew about the Malfoy family.

Looking back at the parchment Hermione had bled on, Voldemort’s mind went back to sixteen years ago, before his spell had turned on him on that fateful night. Of course, he took pleasures of the flesh; he’d always had plenty of willing women to suit his needs when they came. He didn’t know, however, that he’d had a _child_ with one of those thrill-seeking wenches.

Beneath the branching network of names, Hermione’s details had appeared.

_:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::_

_._

_Adopted Name: Hermione Jean Granger_

_._

_Birth Name: Anastasia Hecate Rosier-Riddle_

_._

_Born: 05 December 1980, 4.55 p.m._

_._

_Blood Status: Half-Blood_

_._

_Father: Tom Marvolo Riddle (31 December 1926 – )_

_._

_Mother: Emmeline Lauriane Rosier (14 March 1959 – 9 October 1979)_

_._

_:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::_

Voldemort traced the lines above Hermione’s name, revealing his own heritage, as well as Emmeline’s.

Could it really be that the Mudblood was his? Was she really not a Muggle-born after all?

He looked down to Hermione, splayed without regard across the marble floor. _Was she really his?_ It was difficult to discern from her looks—she wasn’t obviously his spawn. But she didn’t particularly look like her mother, either. He vaguely recalled Emmeline’s image in his mind. He thought he recognised the amber of Hermione’s eyes; Emmeline had the same ones, did she not?

When whiskey-coloured orbs met crimson, Voldemort narrowed his eyes. They were the same shape as his.

He looked back to the parchment. If she was indeed his daughter, surely they would share more physical attributes. Unless… Unless someone had glamoured her? If Hermione had been hidden from him all this time, she had been hidden very skilfully. But who would dare do such a thing? Who— He stopped his thought; the answer had come to him.

Albus Dumbledore.

At that moment, Hermione carefully curled in on herself, a small, pained whimper escaping her. Bellatrix was quick to cast her wand at the girl, exclaiming “_Crucio!_”

Voldemort’s head snapped up. He stood, rage washing over him at being disobeyed; as his most devoted follower _tortured his daughter_. He couldn’t admit to himself that the young, writhing girl was the reason for his next actions. He didn’t recognise the emotion that overcame him. Perhaps it was protectiveness? Yes, that was it. He protected what was his. If anyone wished his possessions damage, they would pay. They would _pay_.

“_Avada Kedavra!_” A lightning bolt of green exploded from the tip of his appendage, hitting his target in the centre of her chest. Bellatrix launched several feet backwards, landing on the floor with a dull thud. Her lifeless eyes remained wide open.

Silence.

Voldemort turned abruptly, casting his eyes around the room, glaring at each of his Death Eaters in turn. They didn’t seem to know what to do with themselves, seeing the Dark Lord’s most loyal follower killed at point blanc. “All but Severus and the Malfoys, leave now,” he said, frighteningly calm. He then motioned at Bellatrix, “Rodolphus, take your wife and dispose of her.”

As his Death Eaters recovered from their frozen stupeur, the Dark Lord spoke quietly, but clearly, “Perhaps this can be a warning to you all; when I give you an order, I expect you to _heed me_.” A smattering of muffled agreement followed in the moments following.

A nondescript Death Eater approached Bellatrix’s body, flicking his wand and levitating her corpse out of the room. The grand doors soon clicked shut as the last of Voldemort’s followers left the scene of the murder.

The Dark Lord leaned down to the gasping girl who now lay at his feet, and picked her up in his arms. Her anxiety was electric. Her exhaustion was tangible. She fought to keep alert, he noticed, but soon her eyes rolled back, and her head lolled to the side, resting against his chest. He gave a silent sigh, addressing the three remaining Death Eaters, “Come. We have much to discuss in regards to the girl.”

They followed him wordlessly, cautiously, curiously, walking through the halls of the Manor, up the grand staircase, towards the guest wing of the estate.

Voldemort entered his suite. He lay Hermione gently on the bed, stepped away, and without taking his eyes off her, uttered, “Severus, I want you to heal her again.”

The addressed stepped forward, raising his wand at Hermione’s prone form. Keeping his expression stoic, now that his mask was off, Severus muttered several diagnostic spells, eyes scanning and memorising the runes that flashed before him. He noted dehydration; malnutrition; muscle fatigue; reduced brain activity; four broken bones in her right hand; damaged nerves and internal bruising, no doubt due to the Cruciatuses. The newly-reopened wound on her dorsal side.

: : :

“Narcissa,” the Dark Lord beckoned, motioning for her to sit with him near the fireplace. “You were acquainted with one Emmeline Rosier, were you not?”

Narcissa paused at the name, before regaining her composure and sitting elegantly down in the chair, crossing her legs at the ankles. She lowered her eyes respectfully, “Yes, My Lord. Emmeline was my dear friend,” she lifted her gaze, “And a maternal cousin.”

Voldemort steepled his fingers as he leaned back, “I assume that as her familiar, you were aware that she was carrying?”

Narcissa nodded politely, “Yes, My Lord. She informed me that she was with child in the later months of her pregnancy.” She paused, “She wouldn’t mention the father.” Narcissa looked away, quickly clearing her eyes of unwelcome tears. Keeping her voice steady, she continued, “She was ever so excited. I thought it very odd—very out of character for her—that she would disappear, especially so near her due date.” She closed her eyes for a moment before looking into the fire “I was to be the child’s godmother.” Narcissa sniffed, delicately, eyes reaching the Dark Lord’s, “My Lord, if I may be so bold to ask… Why are you asking about Emmeline?”

Voldemort took a deep breath, turning his head to the silent figure on his bed. “The child was mine, Narcissa.” He stared at the unmoving girl for a moment before adding, “_Hermione_ is mine.”

“My Lord?” The woman’s eyes widened, following Her Lord’s crimson gaze to the girl. “You mean to say— Emmeline’s daughter… She’s yours?” Narcissa could not bring herself to be ashamed at her stammering.

With a short nod, the Dark Lord handed Narcissa the legitimacy parchment showing Hermione’s bloodline.

: : :

Voldemort said to the maternal Narcissa, against his better judgement, “If I’d known Emmeline was carrying, I would have ensured that the child was brought to me and taken care of.”

His hand shot up; he noticed Narcissa suppress a flinch. A tumbler flew over to greet his palm, a bottle of Firewhiskey following soon after. He poured himself a generous glass, downing it as he looked over at where his daughter lay motionless, Severus standing at her bedside.

He needed to formulate a plan, Voldemort decided; Hermione was on the wrong side of the War. He needed to ensure she had a place by his side from now on. To keep her out of Dumbledore’s reach.

“Lucius,” Voldemort addressed. The blond patriarch looked up. “My Lord?” came the answer.

“I would like you to gather information on the girl. I want to know who her parents are, where they live and what they do. Go to the Ministry and get me the files that mention her name; everything that is available on her.”

Lucius rushedly nodded before turning to leave the room, his body moving stiffly. He had been quietly shocked to hear that the girl, the Mudblood, had been His Lord’s all along. He desperately hoped that His Lord would not find out how much his own son, Draco, had tormented the girl on his orders.

Severus strode over to Voldemort, “My Lord,” he bowed his head, “I shall return shortly. Miss Granger requires several healing potions I keep in my stores.” He handed Voldemort a small parchment, “These are her diagnoses along with the treatment plan I have configured.”

Voldemort waved him away after looking through the list, “You may go. Make haste.”

The Dark Lord stood when Severus had left the room, walking over to Hermione. As he reached her, he brushed a thumb over her cheekbone, an odd sort of possessiveness overcoming him, before abruptly pulling away. He didn’t know why he had done that, what that newfound emotion was. It wouldn’t have been love, he knew, but perhaps some sort of affection? _No_, he decided, it wasn’t possible. And even if it were, he wouldn’t have time for such perfunctory nothings.

He distantly noticed Narcissa moving out of the room to the doorway, ready to be called when need be. He would have to thank her later for that.

Voldemort took Hermione’s limp hand, noticing the scarred flesh on its surface. He pulled it closer, narrowing his eyes at the words engraved in her flesh. ‘_I will respect my betters_,’ it said. He let out a small hiss, gently lowering her hand back down.

“Narcissa,” he called quietly.

The woman reappeared not two seconds later, “My Lord?”

Have her cleaned up, please. I want her taken care of by the time Severus returns to heal her. Ask a House Elf for help if need be.” He looked back at the sleeping figure, “We will discuss more on the matter of my daughter when I return,” and he brushed past the woman, out of the room.

Once Hermione was healed, he thought, he would reveal if she had indeed been glamoured. But first, he needed answers.

Albus would pay for taking away what was his. The Dark Lord would make sure of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay second chapter! (I never thought I'd get this far, jeesh!)
> 
> This one isn't a re-write, so it's more my style, but it still looks really rushed and idrk what to do to make it better ://
> 
> Also, judging by the content, I'm pretty sure this is what you'd consider a filler chapter, so yeah. Sorry :S
> 
> ~Mel

It had been three days since Draco had read about the Battle at the Department of Mysteries in _The Daily Prophet_. Three days since the Golden Trio had become just two. Draco wanted to write to his parents about it; he wanted to ask what they would do with the Mudblood Granger, but he knew they would write to him as soon as they deemed it appropriate. He didn’t want to displease his father with a desperate-sounding letter. No—he would be patient and he would wait, continuing on with his hatred-filled act towards the Gryffindor Golden Boys; as if nothing had changed.

Weaselbee and Scarhead hadn’t actually been making many appearances around the school since Granger had been taken. It was a bit of a relief, Draco thought—against his will, of course. He felt sorry for them, whenever he saw the two, sure, but— no. He had to remind himself that _Honestly, how pathetic were they, doing nothing but sulking about the castle!_ Yes, that was a Lucius-worthy thought—or at least he hoped.

Draco knew his insults had always been pretty shoddy. He tried—really—to improve, but he just didn’t have it in him. He put it down to not having the right material to work with. And he didn’t _actually_ hate the Gryffindors, well, at least not _all_ of them. If Potty, Weaselbee and the not-so-unworthy Granger had done something terrible, on purpose, to taint their names, _then_ he would throw worthy insults at them. But so far, they had remained as Golden as their defining title. Draco felt bitter at that; why did _he_ have to be such an arse, to make his father proud? Couldn’t he just be Draco Malfoy, the not-as-arrogant-a-prick-as-everyone-sodding-thought-he-was? Oh—bollocks. He couldn’t afford to think like that. He would have to keep up the act. He would have to please his father, because he wasn’t working just to please him with his antagonistic remarks to Potty and his berks, but also to please _the Dark Lord_.

Okay. He would lay off for a little while, he decided; let them sulk for a few days, and then poke fun at them again before the summer holidays came around.

_Yeah, that sounded like a decent-ish plan_, Draco thought, as he made his way to Potions class. Granger wouldn’t be there, so he wouldn’t have to focus on coming up with little aspersions for her, and instead would be able to focus more on the classwork. He still thought it a nice reprieve between his daily taunts towards Potty and his ginger sycophant, even after three days of it already.

But then again, Draco felt uneasy. He had noticed, against his fervent wishes, that whenever he was apart from Hermione, an emptiness permeated his being—body _and_ soul, it seemed—hollowing him further every day. He noticed that again now, as he entered the classroom, greeting Professor Snape dully and setting his bag on his desk. As he lay his parchment and quill on the table, Draco came to the brilliant conclusion that he was feeling conflicted; that yes, it was nice not to have to sneer indignances across the room at Granger, but it was most definitely not nice feeling so depressed in her absence. He sighed, sitting down and placing his bag at his feet, barely listening as his mindless goons lumbered into the classroom and sat in their respective seats beside him. Hopefully they caught on that, again today, he wasn’t in the mood to talk to them.

And then he heard the inimitable shuffling of Potter and Weaselbee slowly dragging past him. He perked up reflexively, preparing to throw a meaningless insult in their direction before remembering his earlier plan. He settled with a small low-blow—just to ease them into his insult-abstinence.

“Psst. Weasley!” he hissed.

The ginger lethargically turned around, seeming done with the conversation before it had even started. “What do you want, Malfoy?” he asked tonelessly.

“Feeling a bit depressed without your girlfriend, are you, Weaselbee?” he whispered again, through the bodies shuffling past in the aisle between them. He then addressed Scarhead, “Shame you weren’t good enough to save her, hey Potty.”

Potter sent a stony look at the blond, suppressed rage rippling down his body, “Shove off, Malfoy,” he groaned, pulling Weaselbee’s sleeve to face the front of the class again.

_Damn it, Draco, you idiot! That was far too harsh! What happened to the plan?_ Draco chastised himself as the last of the students shuffled into their seats. He groaned internally as he heard the swooping of Snape’s cloak as he stood up at the front of the classroom in time for another never-ending lesson. _Just two classes to go_, he thought to calm himself. _Two more classes and you can retreat to your bed_. Thank Salazar the sodding Inquisitorial Squad had been disbanded. He didn’t think he’d be able to handle that nonsense anymore with how he’d been feeling recently.

: : :

On Saturday at breakfast in the Great Hall, Draco received a letter from his mother, along with the usual confectionery. It read:

_‘Dear Draco,_

_I apologise for not writing to you sooner, but your father and I have been quite busy with an assignment; I’m sure you know who from._

_I assume you’re aware that Miss Granger was taken from her peers at the Department of Mysteries? Her captor didn’t think very much of her originally, I don’t think, but certain details have been brought into the light recently. There is much you have yet to be told regarding this girl, Draco, but I cannot say any more in this letter. Please don’t fret about it too much. We’ll tell you about it at the holidays._

_With love,_

_Mother’_

Well, _that’s odd_, he thought to himself. He was careful not to unwittingly display the letter to that berk, Pansy, sitting at his left. She couldn’t keep her mouth shut if her life depended on it.

His mother was right to be cryptic in the letter, because nobody knew better than the Malfoys that the Ministry had a tendency to ‘randomly’ intercept their letters whenever they pleased. But frustration grew in his chest at having to be kept in the dark on the matter. What could the Dark Lord have found out about Hermione that was so important? He knew she was Potter’s best friend, but surely she wouldn’t have anything so _lurid_ to divulge?

Draco took a deep breath, attempting to nudge the female limpet off his arm. Oh, how he looked forward to the holidays. _Just one week left_, he assured himself. Just one week.

: : :

It was now Friday evening and Draco was headed to the Great Hall for the End of Term Feast. Usually, after this amount of time spent apart from Granger, he’d be feeling too despondent to interact with anyone, but unusually, today he felt more uneasy than depressed; far too frantic to keep his swirling thoughts to himself. He tried to make up for it by conversing with the pink leech on his arm, but that didn’t work. So he then attempted to throw taunts at Potter from across the Hall, only to be ignored. _Ugh_.

He grew restless, needing an outlet. Never before had the hollowness of Hermione’s absence consumed him so entirely.

Deciding he couldn’t stomach dinner after all, Draco moved to retreat to his Dormitory, much to Pugsy’s dismay. Maybe he just needed to be alone for a while? That usually worked—right?

: : :

Entering his Dormitory, Draco walked at a brisk pace towards his bed, throwing the curtains aside and plopping down at its centre. The soft swaying of the curtains’ tassels on his ankles did anything but soothe him. He turned over and sat up, unfastening his cloak from around his shoulders, letting it pool at his waist. Maybe he needed to feel something different? Yes—that was it! He’d have a shower!

Bursting back through his bed’s curtains, Draco fast-walked to the Dormitory’s bathroom, clicking the lock shut behind him. He swiftly disrobed himself, nearly falling over when his pants were around his knees—not that he’d ever admit it, of course.

The shower knob was grimy—yuck—but he turned it anyway, not even waiting for the water to warm up before stepping under its spray. Quickly regretting that decision, Draco reached for the soap—not the frog-spawn bar he’d left for his goons earlier that day—but his favourite sandalwood-scented bar his mother had gifted him with. He scrubbed at his hands, then the shower knob, and then his hands again, to take his mind off the oh-so-slowly warming water.

When the water had reached an almost scalding temperature, Draco began to scrub at his skin. He needed to feel something—who cared if it was _pain_—to distract himself from Hermione’s absence. He needed to feel better, so he scrubbed and scrubbed, but after a while—Merlin knew _how long_—he started having a hard time breathing, feeling dizzy with the heat. Rinsing off and stepping out of the shower, Draco found that in his haste, he had forgotten to bring a towel—and his wand was still in his cloak pocket! He wasn’t sure how long he had stayed in the shower for, but he could hear muffled voices coming from his dormmates, Blaise and Theo, so he knew dinner must have finished. He couldn’t ask them for help, though—they would mock him for weeks!

Draco was down to three options: Poke his head out to ask for a towel and murder his pride; dart to his bed naked, murdering it even more; or—and this one was wishful thinking—summon his wand _without his wand_, so he could dry himself properly. Option number three was _obviously_ the most appealing, but—oh, sod it—he might as well _try_ it before inevitably bruising his reputation. His roommates would never see him as the flawless, infinitely intelligent pureblooded Draco Malfoy, heir to his family’s estate, and a very handsome fortune, again. Oh boy. _Here we go_.

The naked and quickly cooling Draco put out his hand, and whispered—so not to make him sound like a fool when the ordeal failed—“_Accio_ wand.”

He waited, one moment, two, before saying again, this time with more feeling, “_Accio_ wand!”

A second later, to his astonishment, a small thump echoed from the door. Draco pressed his ear against the condensation-covered wood, listening to make sure it wasn’t just Theo or Blaise knocking, before hearing the sure sound of wood rolling on wood. He couldn’t believe it! Was it really his wand? Draco edged the door open ever so slightly when he heard—or more like felt—his wand roll through the gap, and into his hand. He shut the door to rest his back against it, astonishment clouding his features for a long moment, before he came back to his senses, released a breath and cast a drying charm over his body.

Did he really just perform wandless magic?

_Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself, Draco, most likely everyone in your year could do it. Now calm yourself down and get dressed_.

He sighed, realising he was probably right—that he wasn’t anything special. Yes, he was intelligent, but he was no _Hermione Gr_—

He stopped his thought, hands freezing over the bottom button of his shirt. That dark, desolate emptiness was washing over him again.

_Bollocks_.

He took a deep breath and finished clothing himself before stepping back out into his dormitory. The boys were griping about something or other across the room, barely sparing Draco a glance as he walked over to his bed. Oh well, he thought. He would just ask them about summoning wands later on. Or—no—he would do some reading about it first. Yes, that was a good idea. He had about four hours before the library closed for the night; more than enough for some light research.

But, as he was preparing to leave, his stomach gave a great growl, stopping him in his tracks.

“Blimey, Draco—you sure you should’ve skipped dinner?” Blaise asked from his bed.

“Yeah—er… Doesn’t matter,” Draco replied, eyeing the concerned boy, “Merlin—okay—I’ll go down to the kitchens if you’re so worried.”

“Oh—I’m not worried. I just don’t want to be kept up all night by your insufferable grumbling” Draco quietly wondered if Blaise was referencing his mood as opposed to his stomach, but decided to let it go. “Yeah, sure, Blaise.” Draco winked, “I know you pretend you’re not in love with me,” he sing-sang, strutting out of the dorm, leaving a chortling duo inside.

On his way to the kitchens, though, Draco found that he was feeling rather nauseous at the prospect of eating, so he decided to go to the library first instead. But as he reached the Hallway on the Lower West Floor, the hollow ache in Draco’s body had increased to an almost painful pounding; as if his soul was having an aneurism or like, something. The pounding rose from his core, edging its way into Draco’s head, consuming his entire body. He needed Hermione. He couldn’t think of anything but _her_. That stupid Muggle-born girl consumed his thoughts so entirely that Draco didn’t even notice he’d bypassed the Library entirely and had started back to his Dormitory. He’d do the research later, he decided. He just needed to wallow in self-pity for tonight.

: : :

The next morning, Draco awoke shivering, despite his warm—and expensive—duvet. Green light shone in from the windows, prompting him to groggily wonder what time it was. But without bothering to find an answer, Draco threw off his covers and tread over to his wardrobe.

After pulling on a jumper, he went back over to his bed, pulled his trunk out from under it and dragged it over to his wardrobe, not caring enough to be quiet about it. Luckily, his Dormmates were the deepest sleepers he knew, and though one or two stirred from time to time, they still remained fast asleep. Draco knew he should probably rouse them, given that they hadn’t begun packing for the trip home yet, but he couldn’t bring himself to, so focused was he on the prospect of going back to the Manor. To the place he just _knew_ Hermione resided.

He shrugged off his jumper. He was too hot.

Balling it up in his hands, he moved to fold it back up, but a piece of crumpled parchment sticking out of the pocket caught his eye before he could let it go. He removed it, delicately, unsure of how it had gotten there, given that he hadn’t worn that jumper in ages, or who would have put it there.

He uncrumpled the parchment. It was blank. Maybe he’d accidentally left it there one weekend? It wasn’t particularly like him, but oh well. He moved to throw it in the Dorm’s rubbish bin when a trace of ink started to appear, catching his eye.

Draco squinted, taken aback by the rapidly-appearing words before him:

_‘Malfoy, I don’t know if you’ll get this note because I’ve never tried this before, but please, if you read this, send help. You-Know-Who is watching me very closely, and I’ve had to pretend to be unconscious in front of him for the last few days because I can’t figure out where I am! I’ve only heard bits and pieces of conversations from outside the room I’m in, but I think your parents are here. Please help. I don’t have my wand and I can’t escape. Please. _I need your help!_’_

Draco stared blankly at the parchment, stunned.

He didn’t recognise the swirling scrawl, but he was sure Granger was the one who had sent him the message. But _why_? Why would she send a message to—even moreso, _need_—him, and not her Golden Boys? He would have to find out later, when he could do something about this whole predicament; when he got back to the Manor and things were ruddy explained to him.

He decided to keep packing to distract himself. The more he thought about Hermione’s message, the more the hollowness gnawed at his core.

: : :

At the end of the train ride to King’s Cross Station, Draco stepped off the Hogwarts Express, luggage dragging behind him. Before him, sprawling masses of dancing colours rushed to congregate at the train’s entranceways, ready to welcome home long-missed Hogwarts students. Draco scanned the platform, quickly spotting the familiar blond hair of the Malfoy family—though the person adorning it was not the usual one; instead of his mother picking him up, his father awaited him. When the Malfoy patriarch’s gaze met his son’s, his perfunctory sneer curtailed ever so slightly before righting itself again. Draco felt his chest swell up with pride at that, before rushing over to his father as fast as he could while remaining graceful. He knew all too well how impatient his father could get with him.

No words were exchanged as the two blonds met; instead, Draco’s father merely flicked his wand at his son’s luggage and pocketed the shrunken trunks. He held out his arm for his son to hold for only a short moment before both were whisked away by the nauseating tug of Apparition.

: : :

It had been silent for a very long time for Hermione. No one had come into her room since lunchtime, when a woman had replaced her nourishment charms, and by the reddening of the sky outside, Hermione had deduced that it had to be near evening.

She had tried, earlier that morning, to contact Malfoy with her mind, and having no idea if it had worked, it was hard to think of anything else. The dulcet chirping of birds outside her open window; the ruffling of zephyrs brushing against her hair—they did nothing to calm her mind. They did nothing to abate gnawing hollowness in her core.

She had first noticed a sort of pull towards Malfoy the moment she’d punched him in their Third Year. Since then, every time she spent apart from the boy, the pull had grown; becoming a tug, then a yank, before it had become a deep, sorrow-filled longing.

Hermione hated it—mostly because she couldn’t explain it. She had spent the years since it had begun researching anything to do with what she felt, but all she had come across that even remotely fit her symptoms was some lore about soulmates—which was _obviously_ not the case. She and Draco were complete opposites. She was a Gryffindor; he was a Slytherin. She was a filthy little Mudblood; he was a prissy Pureblood. She worked for her achievements; he let Mummy and Daddy pay for his. Never in a billion years could two such incompatible people be soulmates.

But… A niggling thought had always prodded at the back of her mind. What if—if the Muggle saying was anything to go by—opposites like her and Draco did attract? What if what she felt was reciprocated? What if he was consumed by the same symptoms as her whenever they were apart?

Could they _really_ be soulmates?

As soon as the question crossed her mind, Hermione was startled by the emptiness inside her rapidly refilling, warming her from the numb state she had been in for the last week. The usual rush of an intense sense of belonging washed back over her, almost making her gasp from the sensation.

Hermione jumped suddenly as a familiar lilting voice, albeit far more concerned than usual, sounded in her mind.

_'Hermione? Hermione, can you hear me?'_


End file.
